Sunday, February 28, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Lost and Found

Next, a poem that I found on a folded-up piece of paper inside a book:

I know this full well
In poetry they say thou art and the rest can go to ****!
Lets cut yab (?) and say to you that I wish you liked me to
Also lets say that you are fab and better than doctor who
I love you true and I hope that you realize it
If you don't like it and really despize it
I shall get my brother on to you and you
will regretize it.
To think that I almost threw the piece of paper away, unaware of its hidden treasure. I don't know when it was written, but "fab" had become passé by the mid-1970s.
I wonder if the author "regretized" writing this poem?
On a slightly more exalted note, another book yielded this leaflet, with a beautiful woodcut by Robert Gibbings:

On the subject of illustration, every since I wrote about Victorian colour printing technology, I have discovered around a dozen nineteenth century books with plates that seem far ahead of their time. This is the frontispiece to an 1874 copy of "The Heir of Redclyffe":


It reminds me of some photos a friend used to receive from his penfriend - a girl in Nottingham.
She liked to design and make her own clothes and would create costumes that made Steve Strange look like Man at C&A. Once the outfits were complete, she'd put them on and have her photograph taken. When I saw the pictures, I always used to notice the contrast between the glamour of the clothes and the drab setting: the front room of a council house, with a gas fire in the background, a faded Hay Wain on the wall and a complete absence of books.
I wonder if there were any bookless houses in the Socialist paradise of the Soviet Union?

In fact, this is just a school textbook for young children, with lots of pictures like these:

How do I get from Russia to the King of Greece? I'll take the Orthodox route. The next item is the front of an envelope I found in a book:


Finally, glasses. I think that some women can look incredibly sexy in glasses, but I'm not sure if this is one of those occasions:

Sunday, February 21, 2010
"Education, Education, Education"
In my office, there is a magical door that transports me into a strange, cold world, populated by a species who live in semi-darkness for most of their lives. It is an intimidating place, but I have to go there, as that's where the books are kept.
Sometimes I wait until after sunset, when the cacophony of noise is replaced by an eerie silence and I can enjoy hunting for first editions without risking being crushed under the wheels of a forklift truck. But most of the time, I have to enter the warehouse during working hours, negotiating my way around huge stacks of boxes as if I am part of a giant Tetris game.
Once I've found what I'm looking for, I climb the metal staircase that takes me back to warmth, sunlight and silence. I feel grateful and guilty.
The warehouse is another world. It is cold, dirty and uncomfortable, with a noise level that seems to reduce ordinary conversation to a series of shouted expletives. The staff are a mixed bunch, but most are young lads who have barely started shaving, but still seem to have at least one child.
Everyone smokes.
Two weeks ago I was given the go-ahead to expand my department and recruit two extra members of staff. I already have three brilliant graduates who barely required any training, so I decided to advertise externally for two more. Unfortunately, the word got out in the warehouse and I have received several internal applications.
I know why people are applying. They see my department as a "cushy number" and I suppose it is. We have chairs, windows and heating, which are something of a luxury in my workplace.
Unfortunately I don't think anyone actually knows what we do. The nearest someone came to the truth was describing our work as "data entry" (which was an improvement on the person who asked me what fiction was), but it still fell short of the mark.
It's a very awkward situation. I don't think I'm being that fussy, but I would like someone who can spell, knows that George Eliot was a woman and doesn't keep asking me to translate Roman numerals for them. But regretably there aren't many people in my building who tick any of those boxes.
It's strange, because most of the people I work with seem bright, funny interesting people who could be perfectly capable of doing a fairly straightforward job like valuing and writing about antiquarian books. Why are they leaving school without the skills needed to do this?
Sadly a lot of the external applications haven't been any better. Take this extract from a covering letter I received recently:
"i am currently avalible for immidiate start and have a good knollage of authors and different type of books which i think would be good to bring to the team and be a big help with the job."
Given that the job description asked for a high standard of written English, this sentence was quite breathtaking. I was tempted to write back, advising the candidate (in the kindest way possible) to at least use the spellcheck facility.
Most of the other candidates weren't much better. Is this the legacy of Tony Blair's "Education, education, education" policy, with its "literacy hours" and SATS tests? Who, or what is to blame?
Friday, February 19, 2010
Farewell Lionel Jeffries

The death of Lionel Jeffries has come as something as a shock - mainly because I had no idea that he was still alive.
The second surprise is that Jeffries was 83 when he died, which means that when he played the eccentric grandfather (pictured above) in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, he was only 42 - a year younger than his on-screen son, Dick van Dyke.
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang is a marvellous film and Jeffries was wonderful in it, but his lasting legacy must be two of the most perfect children's films ever made: The Railway Children and The Amazing Mr Blunden, which Jeffries adapted and directed.
The Railway Children is full of delights, from Bernard Cribbins' performance as Albert Perks, to Jenny Agutter's decision to remove her bloomers to prevent a train crash, but the highlight has to be the end of the film. I defy anyone to watch this The Railway Children without shedding a quiet tear.

But it's not just the story that makes The Amazing Mr Blunden so memorable. It's also the wonderful casting.
Before she became the rather odd Mrs Peter Sellers, Lynne Frederick was a fine actress and really carries the film. Laurence Naismith is also wonderful as the enigmatic Mr Blunden - the grandfather we'd all love to have. But the star has to be Miss Diana Dors:

With two such excellent films under his belt, you would have expected Jeffries' career to go from strength to strength, but instead it petered out. I have no idea why, but perhaps the obituaries will reveal the answer.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Under the Volcano

I've been obsessed with volcanic islands for years and four years ago, I decided to go to Iceland. Apart from one near-death experience, I had a really good time and saw some wonderful things.
If you ever want to get away from it all, Iceland is the place to go. It has the one of the lowest population densities in the world and it's possible to walk for hours without meeting anyone. Iceland also has the lowest biodiversity rate of any country and the defining features of the landscape are rock, water and sky:
But what I also love about Iceland is that in spite of its benign exterior, the island is sitting on a geological powder keg. Steams pours out of fissures in the ground, pools bubble like cauldrons and occasionally, there are violent volcanic eruptions, some of which have resulted in hundreds of deaths.
At school, we are told that beneath the Earth's crust, there is a magma of molten lava. In Iceland you can almost feel it through the soles of your shoes.
Monday, February 15, 2010
New Bookmarks
The first is a touching portrait of four doting Victorian grandparents and their slightly jug-eared grandchild. I particularly like the large black "Sorting Hat" belonging to the woman on the right:


The next four photos are something of a mystery. Taken between 1903 and 1905, they are part of an album devoted to a place mysteriously known as "the Home". We are never told where the home is or what it's for.




Finally, some further examples of Victorian colour printing:



Thursday, February 11, 2010
Off Colour
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Victorian Colour
The illustrations are remarkably vivid, but the book's main surprise is it's depiction of popular nursery rhyme characters:







I've found even earlier titles with good quality colour plates, which makes me wonder why it took roughly a century before colour illustrations became the norm rather than the exception.
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
The Death of Steerforth

I miss the emotional highs of being a teenager - the delusion that you are the hero of your own novel, embarking on a great adventure. I didn't relish discovering that in reality, I was a minor character in a badly-written blockbuster. However, I don't miss the terrible angst and black depressions that seemed to appear from nowhere.
I agree with Shaw that youth is wasted on the young. Looking back, my teens could have been one long snogfest if I hadn't been so idiotic. For example, when a girl asked me if I was interested in going to Paris for a weekend, I concluded that she might fancy me, but there wasn't enough evidence to reach a firm conclusion. How stupid can you get?
Instead, I spent far too much time listening to Mahler and watching obscure European films (although I'll admit that the latter was partly for the gratuitous nudity).
In spite of this, I would give anything to recapture a feeling I had when I was 19, walking along a moonlit beach in Dorset. I have been to many far more remarkable places since then, but my responses are always tempered by a terrible self-consciouness: here I am on the edge of the Grand Canyon and I can see that it is awe-inspiring, but am I feeling what I should be feeling? In Dorset, I experienced a perfect moment; perhaps because I was surprised by joy (and top marks if you spotted the references to both C.S.Lewis and a Martine McCutcheon single).
I'm still have those wonderful serendipitous moments, but the moment I become aware, the bubble bursts. It's very annoying.
If you're wondering what the point to this post is, I'm afraid that there isn't one. These are the demented ramblings of someone in the advanced stages of Man Flu, with his whole life flashing before him. I do apologise.
Saturday, February 06, 2010
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
Diaries of a Nobody
Most of the books I deal with at work are titles that have failed to sell in charity shops. That might not sound very promising, but my employers have built up a successful, multi-million pound business selling books that used to be dumped on landfill sites.
Occasionally we also receive the contents of house clearances, where the owner of the books has either died or moved into an old people's home. It can be rather depressing wading through someone's book collection, realising that however erudite and well-read they were, this is how it ends.
On Monday we received a huge delivery of house clearance stock, most of which had a religious theme. The books were mostly conventional titles about Biblical history and the Gospels, but there were a few that were more off the wall. I noticed a recurring theme of lost civilsations and in addition to the usual titles about Atlantis, there was one book that tried to prove that humans and dinosaurs co-existed. Who owned this strange collection?
The answer lay in a box at the bottom, which contained the personal diaries of a local government officer called Derek.
Why were Derek's journals sent to us? A few of his diaries from the 1950s could have been mistaken for books, but not the thick, foolscap binders from the 1980s, with their typewritten pages.
These diaries were of no use to us and were almost binned, but I couldn't bring myself to throw someone's life into a skip. I rescued the box and later, started to browse its contents.
This is Derek in 1956:

When Derek's diaries begin, he is in love with Brenda:

"I was much troubled by evil dreams last night. I tossed and turned upon my bed in a way I have not done for many years. I dreamt that I was at the office and kept calling the female staff by titles and names that were blatantly sexist and in transgression of the County Council's instructions in this matter."
The Pooterish tone of the writing results in many examples of unintentional hilarity:
"On the way to Bristol this morning, Elaine Hamilton and I got to discussing her daughter's hay fever and I suggested that susceptibility to such things could be dependent upon the density of the hairs in one's nose. It was a novel suggestion that gave her some thought!"
Or:
"Eric the Barber, with his lady assistant, was sitting in his shop idle when I passed by with the hamster. He called out to me, so I went in and showed the scrap to them. Eric thought that hamsters would live amicably together in the same cage. I soon disillutioned him of that myth. I also told him that they were a great thing to have in the house if one were plagued by mice, since mice are scared beyond measure by hamsters."
Hamsters obviously play an important role in Derek's household:
"When we got back home, we said hello to Brenda, Richard and the hamster."
The Pooterish theme extends to the cast of characters: Mr Sunter and Mr Limpett, Oliver Dewsnapp, Gerald Ramsbottom, Mrs Moncrieff, Norman and Joan Farbass, Warwick Kear, Steve Fagg, Pam Bolloch, Julia Sleat and Malcolm Satchel. All real people.
But it would be so easy to save Derek's diaries just so that I could use them as comic material, whereas the truth is that the humorous moments are only a small part of the whole. Derek comes across as a decent man, trying to live the good life according to his beliefs. He is plagued by self-doubt and his journals bear witness to the struggles of an ordinary person who is regularly plagued by extraordinary feelings:
"I set my lip on fire the other morning. And on Sunday night I had a dream. I became acquainted with an attractive woman with curly hair, but undefined facial features. I was much tempted by her and took her back to a basement with rusty radiators..."
And what of the diary itself? Why did Derek faithfully maintain his journal for at least forty years?
"Why I keep a journal is often a mystery to myself. There is an inward compulsion - some would call it egotism - that will not rest until my life is recorded. Of course, the Keeper always imagines that any journal he keeps will be of inestimable value to future generations; will be a work of intimate revelations that will declare his glory to endless decades. And that is a foolish dream hardly worth the paper he has kept it on. "
I don't know what to do with Derek's diaries, however I can't bring myself to throw them away. But if not now, when?
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
Orientalism


If you click on these images, they may take slightly longer to upload, but I felt that illustrations of this quality warranted high resolution scans (and as these images are copyright-free, I hope they'll make their way around the blogosphere).




